


A Female Occupation

by Aunt_Beast



Category: Amanda Palmer (Musician)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aunt_Beast/pseuds/Aunt_Beast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spectre, a murder, a decision, assorted fruit. This is what happens when Amanda Palmer shows up in your town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Female Occupation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knitmeapony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitmeapony/gifts).



> Warning: This story contains an explicitly violent description of attempted rape. May well be triggery. Please, read at your own risk.

3 AM, and she's down the alley, and he's chasing her, chasing her, and she can't believe this is actually happening, it's so stupid. She can't believe it, of all the urban legends she never believed, now it's her, she's the cautionary tale, and she's going to die. And all she wanted was a cup of fucking coffee.

Dead end. Brick wall. She looks up, sees the stars, the moon behind a cloud. It's a bright night. There are worse places to die, she thinks. She looks at him. He's stopped running. He looks at her, grins, white teeth, two strides and he's pulling her to the ground, ripping at her hair, and she's squirming for leverage, her knee in his stomach, and he cracks her head into the pavement. Light fills her vision, she can't see, she can't move. She's lying on the ground next to a dumpster, and a rapist is unbuckling his belt. Her head lolls. She looks to her left and sees the girl. The girl is sprawled across two crates, on her belly. Her neck is cracked. She's in a red dress. There's blood on her face. She's dead.

She says, Run.

And then she can't remember, she doesn't know how she got up, but she's running, her throat is sore, she's choking on air, she keeps running until she's on her knees in a convenience store at 3 in the fucking morning, gasping, gagging. She's making a scene. She thinks she should be embarrassed. There are people standing around her. She backs up against the counter, sits, hugs her knees, looks for him. He's not there. She breathes. She wonders where the girl went.

The next morning the police go and look. There's no dead girl. There's only a dead rapist, neck cracked, sprawled across two crates. The blood on his face leaves a very delicate trail, like someone drew it on with an eye pencil. There's lipstick smeared on his cheek, like someone kissed him goodbye.

This kind of thing keeps happening.

My cousin's friend got cornered by a guy in the upstairs bathroom at a party. He broke her wrist. There was a dead girl in the bathtub with a bloated face. Now he's in a wheelchair, and he won't speak to anyone.

My neighbor knew a girl who saw her dead on the beach with seaweed in her hair.

Sometimes I ride my bike through the park, home from work, at dusk, and when men whistle, I see her hanging from the branches with a rope around her neck. I wave. She waves back, and winks at me.

Sometimes I see her in taxis, peering out of the rearview mirror, over the air freshener, checking her makeup with a serious face.

Last night I went to a midnight movie, one of the ones with giant robots smashing each other. I love the giant robots. The theater was almost empty, only me and two other guys, sitting together, two rows ahead. She sat down next to me. She said, "Oh man. I love this part." It was one of the smashing parts. She ate some of my popcorn. I studied her face. She looked happy, delighted with the movie. Onscreen, the hottie was pouting at the nerd, in her very short shorts. I said, "She would never ever fuck him," and she said, "Oh, I know, isn't it great?" and grabbed for my soda. I leaned my head on her shoulder, and closed my eyes. Two rows down, the guys catcalled, and she carded her fingers through my hair. She was gone when I woke up.

My town is different now. The men are more polite, and they don't walk like they used to. They keep their eyes on the sidewalk, hunch a little, walk with their books pressed to their chests. They dart their eyes at me as I walk past -- hands in my pockets, head thrown back, whistling -- like they don't know who to trust. I don't feel bad for them.

I haven't seen her in a couple of months, and now I'm looking. She's not in the abandoned factory. She's not down by the docks. She's not jogging in the park. She's not slipping into the back row of my lecture, late, smiling apologetically. She's not driving the bus. I miss her. She's nowhere. It's kind of pissing me off.

Then I see her at the grocery store. She's with some guy. They're in the produce section, inspecting the bananas. I say, "Hey!" She turns around, and says "Yeah?" She's smiling a little. I can't tell if she recognizes me, or if she's humoring the irate stranger. I say, "Hey. Where've you been?" She doesn't say anything. The guy rolls his eyes, like this happens a lot. She says, "It's not like this is my only town. I'm busy. It's a big job." I say, "Yeah," and she goes back to the fruit. I say, "Try the clementines," and start walking.

A minute later, she catches up with me, grabs my elbow. I say, "Who's that guy?" and she says, "Nobody. Just a friend." I say, "Yeah, whatever," and she says, "What, I can't have friends?" "I just didn't think you were into that." "He's not like that. He's nice. They're not all bad." I shove my hands in my pockets, look at the floor, don't say anything. She says, "I know you like me, but, you know, this is just my job. I'm not like this superhero, and I'm leaving pretty soon." She pauses. "They're gonna need someone else to take over when I transfer. If you want I could mention you." I say, "Yeah. Well. That might be cool," and she leans in and kisses me on the forehead, squeezes my hand, and goes, "Hey, I'll be seeing you, all right?"

Outside, it's a crisp night. There are women smoking in the parking lot, and they don't even glance at me, lost in thought. I sit down at the picnic table, look at the moon, eat my apple, eat my cake, watch my breath in the air. Suddenly, everything is okay, really okay, okay like it's never been. I run to my car, whooping, and war cries echo back from every direction. It's a good town.


End file.
